


Another 7-1

by Buttons15



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttons15/pseuds/Buttons15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something Lucio always says when things don't go his way, but he refuses to explain what it means, and Tracer is intent on finding out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another 7-1

**Author's Note:**

> just a silly drabble

Lena was sitting peacefully on the couch, watching a rerun of the latest Doctor Who season, when she heard loud crash coming from the kitchen, followed by the sound of something breaking. In a split second, she blinked there, skidding to a halt in front of a distraught-looking Lucio and a shattered glass on the floor.

“Oi, luv. Let something fall?” she quipped.

“It was the last cup of cold Matte,” the man whined. “Every single day a different 7-1.”

“What’s that mean?” she asked. It wasn’t the first or the second time she’d heard that from him – in fact, it seemed to be his catchphrase whenever something went wrong, just like she went ‘oh golly gee, rubbish’.

His face instantly turned into a scowl. “I’m not going to tell you that. It’s personal.”

Tracer wouldn’t have that, not at all. She was a curious person, and she was nothing if not persistent. And that was how her personal crusade began.

* * *

 “Oi Zeny, Zeny!” she bounced around of the omnic, “You busy?”

The light on the robot’s forehead flashed blue. “I am having my morning meditation.”

“Oh.”  She paused, hopped from one foot to the other. “So, do you have time to answer me a question?”

She could have sworn she heard the monk sigh. “What troubles you, child?”

“Y’see, I was just wondering, there’s something Lucio always says, and since you’re so smart ‘n all, thought you’d know – what’s a 7-1?”

There was a pause. Zenyatta tilted his head. “Seven is a common number in many faiths. Lucio comes from a very Christian country, and the bible has many mentions of it – ‘vengeance will be taken sevenfold’ and such. If it is a sentence which comes from him in times of sorrow, then it may be religious in nature.”

She pulled a small notebook and a pen from her pocket, flipped it open and wrote down: _Religious expression?_

“Thanks, Mr Robot!”

Tracer blinked away.

* * *

“Genji!!” Lena popped in front of the man, who was in the middle of a reading. Without asking, she snatched the book from his hands, and scanned the upside-down title –‘The Art of War’.

“…Tracer,” he greeted. “I…was reading that.”

She closed the book and handed it back to him, purposefully making him lose his page. “I have a question for you, do you have a moment?”

Genji looked at the volume in his hands. “Well, now I do.”

“You know that thing Lucio says when things go wrong? Every day another 7-1? I was wondering if you knew what a 7-1 is.”

The man looked up at the roof and was silent for a moment, thinking. “Nana-korobi Ya-oki.”

“Say what now, luv?”

“It’s a Japanese proverb – seven falls, eight getting up. It means, life has its up and downs. If it’s something he says when there’s trouble, then perhaps it’s a motivator… words to remind himself that things may look nasty, but it all passes.”

She opened her notebook and scrawled a second note:   _Japanese motivational gibberish?_

“I see… thanks, luv!”

Tracer blinked away.

* * *

“McCreeeeeeeeee!”

The man grabbed the Cuban cigar from between his teeth and put it out, turning to face her. She wrinkled her nose.

“Ew. Didn’t the doctor tell you to quit ‘em cigs, cowboy?” she zipped, grabbed the still smoking cigarette from between his fingers and promptly threw it off the open window.

“Hey!” he protested. “Do you have any idea of how much those cost –”

“Less than lung cancer treatment, probably,” she snapped, then babbled on, “So I was wondering if you knew something about that thing Lucio always says when he’s in trouble – the 7-1 stuff.”

McCree took his hat off and sighed, rubbing his temples with his index and middle fingers. “Hmm. It’s a good question. I always saw it as a protest of sorts, y’know? Seven bullets gone his way before he can fire a single one.”

Lena grabbed the pen and wrote down a third note: _Cowboy metaphor for the unfairness of life?_

“Thanks for the help, McCree. I promise I won’t even tell doctor Ziegler about the smokes.”

“Don’t you dare –” the man began, but she wasn’t really listening.

Tracer blinked away.

* * *

“Captain Amari!!”

“Sonofa-” Pharah jumped, startled, accidently hitting her head on the insides of her Raptora suit. She cursed in Arabian.

“…Lena,” she greeted sourly, rubbing the bump on her skull.

“Sorry about that luv, I just had a question, and it’s real important so –”

“Do tell,” the soldier interrupted, pocketing a screwdriver.

“What does that 7-1 thing Lucio says when he’s upset mean?”

The Egyptian rolled her eyes so hard, Tracer wondered if she could lose them on the back of her skull. The woman crossed her arms over her chest and thought for a moment. “I always saw it as a rally of sorts… seven are stronger than one, all for one and one for all.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, irritated. “But I can’t tell for sure. Ask Ange – Doctor Ziegler. She probably knows better. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”

On her notebook, her list grew:  _Some teamwork bollocks?_

“No sir, I mean, no ma’am, that was all, thanks!”

Tracer blinked away.

* * *

She knocked on the door. She usually just barged in, but she’d seen the doctor angry before and boy, hadn’t it been scary. And if there was one thing able get the Swiss out of her cool, it was interrupting a consult and breaking a patient’s privacy. So Tracer knocked, and she waited, until she heard a voice from inside:

“Come in,” Angela called, and the British zipped ahead. “Oh, Lena! How can I help you today? Accelerator vertigo again?”

“No problem, doc, all in order with this body here.” She tapped her chest as if to confirm it. “No, I just have a question.”

“Of course,” Mercy replied, pushing her glasses up her nose. “What is it?”

“Weeeell… it’s about Lucio,” she babbled. “You know that thing he often says? The 7-1 stuff. I was wondering what that meant…but he wouldn’t tell me,” she admitted, unable to stop the urge of being honest with the doctor. “He said it’s personal, but I’m real curious and Captain Amari said you’d probably know and –”

She was interrupted when the other started laughing. She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, smirking, and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

“So you do know!” Lena accused.

“Oh, yes,” the other agreed, her lips quirked up. “It’s a _fussball_ thing. Ask Reinhardt.”

 _A football thing,_ she mused. It made sense. The doctor’s half-answer sated her curiosity only by a little, and now that she was so close, she was adamant on finally getting that answer.

“Thank you, doctor Ziegler, yes, I’ll do that,” she replied, receiving a nod in return. “Oh, and I saw McCree with a cigarette today!”

She didn’t pay attention to the indignant huff behind her.

One last time, Tracer blinked away.

* * *

“Oi, old man!”

She poked an asleep Reinhard with her palm, shaking him awake. The man grunted, grouchy, rubbing his eyes.

“Lena,” he grumbled. “Do you have any idea what time is it?”

“The middle of the afternoon, actually,” she shot back, zipping back and forth in the room.

“Well, I was still sleeping,” Reinhardt snapped, rising to a sitting position. “This better be good. Why are you here?”

She stopped her dashes in front of the elder. “Well, there’s a thing Lucio says, and he refuses to explain me what it means, and I’ve been asking around, and everyone gives me different answers but the doctor said you knew for sure and that it was a football thing an –”

“ _Mein gott,_ slow down, child, I can’t make out anything you’re saying.”

“What’s a 7-1?” she blurted, and the man frowned.

“A what now…?”

“A 7-1,” she repeated. “As in ‘every day a different 7-1’. The thing Lucio says when something bad happens. Doctor Ziegler said you’d know.”

“Oh,” Reinhart’s expression turned into a wide grin, all the bad mood suddenly wiped away. “Oooohh. It’s been almost seventy years.”

He stood up, wordless, and made his way to the large flat screen across the room. She followed, excited, and he pulled his chair and had a seat. Tracer zipped in and out of the room in less than a second, returning with the first stool she found. She plopped down in front of the monitor, tapping her foot.

Reinhard flicked his hand and the display turned on. “Athena,” he commanded. “Find: _fussball_ world cup semi-finals, July 2014. Brazil versus Germany.”

“Records found,” the AI replied after a minute. “Initiate playback?”

“ _Ja_ ,” the man replied, fully awake now. He turned to Tracer, and if his smile could get any wider, it would crack his face in half. “The brits enjoy a good match of football, don’t they? Make yourself comfortable, child… you’re about to see the game of your life.”

 


End file.
